


Just Shoot Me

by ReadyPlayerMic



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gun Violence, Incredibly painful headaches, M/M, Multi, Reader has infuriating abilities, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadyPlayerMic/pseuds/ReadyPlayerMic
Summary: The death of an Asgardian is a terrible thing. But it is not the end. After the destruction of Asgard many fell, and unknown to all, settled in the bodies of those deemed worthy of the honour, to house such an ancient being. There they will stay, dormant, until their strength is returned, in a process that will span centuries.But the Goddess Vör has been dead for so long, her essence, her soul has begun to spill into her Midgardian host already. How will Thor react to them speaking of events that only the old crone he used to annoy would know? How will the Avengers react when a civilian turns up on their doorstep spouting tales of the future, that end with the destruction of all they have ever known and loved?How will Loki try to woo them, when all they see is a vision of his death?Gender Neutral Reader/Loki fic.





	Just Shoot Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this is a haphazard mix of the Cinematic Universe and the comics, but I’ll try to make sense.

Your curse begins in the shower, under the spray. It’s late, way past the time many would consider more appropriate to clean yourself, but you don’t care. Personal hygiene should never be limited by the boundaries of time.  
The heat of the water is just on the edge of severe, and exactly the way you like it. You relish the almost burn, the way it seems to seep into your very bones and work out the stiff flesh in between. You’ve preferred the heat ever since you were young.

You spend the first few minutes of your shower washing your body, with one of your more self indulgent purchases - brand name soap. You remember how you chided yourself as you walked out of the store with a heavy paper bag at your side, but god be damned, sometimes a person wanted to be a little selfish. If you want to smell like a walking candy cane for the next few weeks, then you will!

You shake your head, water droplets running down your face as you do so at the memory. Logically you know, spending a bit of your extra money on expensive personal items is hardly a sin, but the ever present and familiar emotion known as guilt still rears its ugly head, insistent you experience it to your fullest potential. It blooms in your chest, twisting and tugging and tearing until your mood is definitely soured. Now even the smell of your minty soap is not enough to cheer you up.

There goes your plan for a fun late night of Netflix.

You’ve washed yourself clean of the suds when it hits. With all the softness of a hammer, a violent headache slams itself into your skull. You lurch forward unexpecting, head almost crashing into the tiles of your shower, but you manage just barely to catch yourself with your hands. It hurts. An aggressive, pulsing throb unlike anything you’ve felt before works it’s way through your head and doesn’t stop. It builds and builds, and you can’t think, so intense is the pain. You slam your eyes shut, the light suddenly too bright, too much.

Your forehead comes to rest upon the tiles, the chill in stark contrast to the heat of the water. Briefly, you hope it works to settle the intensity of your pain, ease it just a little, but there isn’t any reprieve. Your headache continues and your eyes burn, filling with tears.

It is when you feel that you can’t take anymore, certain of it, body hunched over in a feeble attempt to lessen the pain and your eyes stay shut that something in your mind gives under the pressure, and then you’re gone.

* * *

 

The next time your eyes open, you know damn well you aren’t at home anymore. The view in front of you is a dull, depressing one. A sky, grey with the heavy threat of rain is the first thing you see. It weighs itself in the air, considering, and were you in different circumstances you’d happily welcome it.

But right now? Fuck no. Your eyes travel down, the uncertain sky hides behind the mountainous landscape, and they were an ugly mix of the off-white of old snow and the lacklustre brown of slightly wet mud.

You wriggle your feet, yet feel nothing. Looking down, you quickly realise why. Your body isn’t there. Somehow, you were there, seeing, but not there. Physically. Fear clutches at your chest - what the hell is going on? Where are you?

Scanning the rest of the horizon, you see nothing that could give you a clue as to your whereabouts, it only raises more questions. To your right is a pitiful excuse for a forest, the trees still full of leaves but bent, twisted, scarred. To your left is the same, with a rundown but still capable barbed wire fence and a tank. It pointed away from you thankfully.

Wherever you were, it didn’t want visitors. That much, you knew.

The sound of footsteps crunching on the ground draws your attention, and your sight is spun around without your consent.

Two armed men are dragging a man, not kindly at all mind you, dressed in bright red and white through the metal gates. His knees lay on the ground, leaving the men to exert a bit of effort to keep him from stopping their entry.

He must be someone important if he’s wearing a costume, but you don’t recognise him. One of the - soldiers? Guards? - men begins to speak, and once again you’re left with questions.

You hear him talk, and know for sure he isn’t speaking in English. The intonation is unknown, but familiar at the same time. Russian.  
You know you can’t speak the language, and yet you understand every word that comes out of his mouth.  
“We caught this one trying to breach the perimeter fence to the north, General Lukin.” He spits out, giving their captive a little shake as they approach two men.

As you get a closer view of them, your heart begins to stutter, palms turning clammy. One is a middle aged man, face adorned with the beginnings of crows feet and salt creeping into his pepper coloured hair. He isn’t unattractive, but your current situation has you a little too anxious to even consider whether you personally find him interesting. The other, is the cause of your terrified heart.

There is only one man with a face like that - Johann Schmidt. Der Rote Schädel. The Red Skull.

As much as the sight of his garish appearance has you wishing you could flee, you can’t help but stare, taking in everything. The prisoner is carried all the way to the duo’s feet, as he groans out in Russian, unaware of his predicament. “Uh... What is?”

Without mercy, the men drop him. He hits the ground with a harsh thud. “The neural blasters took him down just as expected,” the soldier continues, while the man stays prone, a single pained groan the only sound he makes.

“Forgive the interruption, Herr Skull.” The General begins, speaking in English, his voice polite, careful. What is his name? Lewkin? Lewken? He’s peering down at their prisoner, his expression giving nothing away, but you have a feeling whatever it is they have in store for him, it won’t be pretty. “This will only take a moment, and then we can get to our business.”

“Don’t apologise, General.” The tone of the Red Skull’s voice is equally as polite, but it leaves the hair on the back of your neck rising in warning. Something about it is off. If the General’s voice is the equivalent of something warm and smooth, like coffee, then the Red Skull’s is ice. It promises violence, it promises a burn. Whether that’s from his words, or his actions is what you must watch for. “I’m always happy to wait when entertainment is provided.” He emphasises the word ‘entertainment’ and you shudder.

Evidently you aren’t the only one disgusted, because the General’s next words are nowhere near as polite. “Keep your satisfaction to yourself, sadist. What I do here I take no joy in.”

Instinctively you wince, waiting for the pin to drop and the Red Skull to lose his temper, but he says nothing, letting the General sink to his knees and help the costumed prisoner to sit up.

“So, even after the fall, the Red Room still produces men such as yourself?” He’s switched to Russian to speak to his captive, making sure the man was lucid enough to respond, hands clasped tight on his upper arms. “I would have thought that time was long passed. Did they tell you what happened to your predecessors, Red Guardian?”

Oh. That is also a name you know. The Red Guardian was definitely featured in your high school Modern History class once, men that were created to be the Soviet equivalent of Captain America - but the Soviet Union’s been disbanded for a good long while now, how could they still have one?

“General Aleksander Lukin,” The Red Guardian manages to force out, still reeling from whatever blast he’d taken before, “Under the authority of President Yeltsin...”

He lifts his head as the General rises to his feet once more, continuing to soldier on, “You are hereby... under arrest... for abandoning your post... for theft of government... secrets... and weapons...” It’s obvious it’s taking a toll on him to say the words, but from the intensity of his gaze, he isn’t going to stop anytime soon.

Dread creeps up your spine, doesn’t he understand the position he’s in? Somehow, you can’t see him getting through this with his life. “And for crimes of treason against Mother Russia...”

“Mother Russia?” Something in the General’s expression darkens, and your feeling grows. This isn’t going to end well. “I’m sorry to tell you that I am all that is left of the true Mother Russia, boy...” He pulls a pistol, shiny and black from his coat pocket, and before you can shut your eyes he’s aimed it at the Red Guardian and fired.

The blast from the shot echoes around the decrepit military facility you’ve found yourself in and a shout of fear tears itself from your throat before you can stop it.

The recently made corpse lies still, and your stomach churns with a vengeance. You’d throw up, if you could. But with no physical body to expunge fluids from, you’re left feeling viciously nauseous. The General keeps his eyes closed, face tight. In that moment after the kill, he seems to age, wrinkles creasing across his face deeply.

Regaining composure after a moment, he returns the gun to its holster, as he instructs one of his men, “Treat his remains as if he were one of our own. When we’re finished here, I’ll let them know where they can retrieve his body.”

He turns, beginning to walk towards one of the drab metal buildings, with the Red Skull at his heels. “Now, Herr Skull... I assume you still want to examine the items I have for sale?” He returns to English.

Your sight follows as they enter, and you realise it’s a warehouse, the ceiling high and dimly lit, with shelves full of boxes, jars and an assortment of items stacked. They stop by one, and the Red Skull picks something up: a gun. It’s another handheld gun, but something in the design is different from a regular pistol. The way he holds it out in front of him like it has a sight he can squint into, but you can’t see one. Are you missing something here?

“What is this, exactly?” He asks after a round of inspection, and the General only has to glance over before giving a reply.

“According to the schematics, it opens small windows into something called, eh...” He trails off for a moment, clearly unable to recall the words. “The Negative Zone?”

God, you want to leave. You don’t want to hear anymore. Nothing about that place is good from what little you know, and they’ve been designing weapons to send people there?

You wish you could look away. You wish you didn’t have to see anything else.

“This is all experimental work? Or has it been field-tested?”  
“Some has. What is here will work, I guarantee you that, Skull. This is the last of Comrade Karpov’s facilities, and where he kept his most valuable treasures.”

The Red Skull pauses in his examination, giving the General what you assume is a pointed look, one gloved hand trailing down the side of the weapon. “Karpov...” He begins, “How would your old mentor feel about what you’re doing with his inheritance? Selling KGB-developed weaponry to the highest bidder?”

He’s trying to goad the man, words pointed and tone lilting but his companion doesn’t take the bait as the gun is put back and their stroll through the building restarts. “Why do you think he left this in my hands and not his superiors?” The General questions, passing chemistry sets. “He knew if the Soviet Union were to collapse, there must still be men willing to do the right thing for the cause.”

He stops first, by something that steals your air. It’s a giant cylindrical tube, filled with oddly green liquid, and a man. A man rests in that glass container. He’s naked, floating in whatever was in there, hair long and dark, covering most of his features. He’s muscular, body shaped by years of what you assume was hard work and effort - or steroids.

The General is not as horrified by the discovery as you are, because he simply continues, “And I am not selling everything you see here. Most of it is leaving this sad country, along with myself and my men.”

“I see.” The Red Skull replies, “Then I- Mein Gott!” He cuts himself off in surprise, noticing the man for the first time. Immediately he’s crossing the space, hand plastered against the glass as he drinks the sight in. “This can’t be what it looks like?!” He sounds as equally hopeful as disbelieving, and it’s when he moves his head do you notice the arm.

The left arm of the man in the tube is purely metal. Something about that feels... frighteningly familiar. Or like it should be familiar, but you are certain you don’t know the man at all.

“Ah, yes. I’ve been going over the paperwork Comrade Karpov left on this one. He was apparently very useful in the Cold War. A secret weapon, of a sort, against the United States.” The General stands a good deal away, making no move to stop the Red Skull from touching.

The Cold War? It’s been almost thirty years since the end of that sunny period of the world’s history, but the man in the tube, he looks, from the little you can see, way too young to have been someone active during that time. What is going on here?

The Red Skull barely turns his head, one disturbing eye focussing on his seller. “How much do you want for it?”

It, he says. Not he, it. Like the man in the tube is just another experiment.

“I think not, Herr Skull. I have my own plans for that item. Unless, of course, you would be willing to exchange it for the cosmic cube, as it is known?”

The Red Skull pauses, and there’s tension in the air as he slowly faces the General head-on. “The cube? What do you know about that?”

“We know of many things you hold close, Skull.” The General is unperturbed by the Red Skull’s demeanour, or if he is, he’s doing a fantastic job of hiding it. “And I would value this cosmic cube quite highly if it is what I have heard.”

“Oh, it is, believe me. But it’s not in my possession. Even if it was, you can’t think you’d have anything that would make me give it up.” Eyes dark in their unnerving sockets, the Red Skull turns towards the man in the tube once more.  
“Though I can see why you’d desire it...” He sounds contemplative, as though he’s mulling it over. “You’d have the power to rebuild your socialist republic, wouldn’t you?”

“That is one possibility, among many.” The General affirms, but he doesn’t sound pleased by the admission.

“Well, you can keep dreaming...” The Red Skull counters without missing a beat. “My spies are combing the world for signs of it even as we speak. The cube will be mine, and no one else’s.” There’s a tightness to his tone at the word ‘mine’, and if he isn’t intensely serious about his words, then you’d consider him the world’s best actor. His threat you hear loud and clear, and it is begging to be acted on. He wants the General to rise to the challenge, pride injured by the insult and retort hastily, and give him an excuse to kill him. “And when that day comes, this whole world will know fear, General... Like you’ve never seen.”

With those ominous words orbiting around your ears, you feel a tugging. It pulls, and your vision blurs as you’re flung in a different direction. For a moment, as you let yourself head elsewhere, you think this might be the end. That you’ll be home once more the next time you open your eyes, and see. That this is all just some crazy dream.

But it doesn’t happen.

Instead you find yourself looking out at a cityscape, skyscrapers high and low spread out before you. The sky is dark, and just barely, you can see the twinkling of a small amount of stars, the rest hidden by the lights on in all the buildings. The slight reflective shine of glass stares back at you, and you recognise that you’re looking through a window.

There’s movement in the reflection, and your vision pulls back just enough to see. The Red Skull is there, glass of wine in his still gloved hand. He’s gazing out at the view you just was admiring yourself, his back to you.

He seems lost in his thoughts, for he stays there for a few minutes before suddenly turning around, following his train of thought. His steps are slow, purposed as he saunters towards a particular spot in what you can tell is an apartment. The floor, tiled in blue, he treads down some steps coming to a stop at a plain accent table. Resting on top of the table is a spherical glass container, and inside it... is something you’ve never seen before.

It looks like a cube, as transparent as the glass that holds it, and yet solid at the same time. The air around the table is thick, buzzing with an unknown energy that leaves you shivering. Periodically, an edge of the cube begins to spark, arching into a trail that hits the glass with a loud fizz. The Cosmic Cube, you presume.

The Red Skull kneels down, getting eye level with the cube. Next he’s rising, tipping his head back to down the contents of his glass. He’s not clean about it, a good portion of the wine goes to waste, running through his teeth and down his chin to stain his shirt.

With one glance back to the cube, with an empty wine glass still in his hand, the Red Skull goes back to his spot at the window, and resumes his position.

Now, when you peer out there as well, you can see the vibrant colours of cars moving along the motorway, blurring together into a synthetic rainbow. It was oddly pretty. You aren’t someone who lives in the city, so you can’t pretend this is a sight you see often.

This time the tugging feels more intense, tearing you away from the scene with the softness of a strip of wax paper, tossing you elsewhere. You’re sent spinning wildly, vision blurring once more.

The world going black, it’s not until you feel the heat of water running down your back and chest once more, that you’re finally back in your body.

And you have no fucking clue what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Your vision is from the first issue of Captain America (2005).


End file.
